


The Mishles

by Janice_Lester



Category: Star Trek RPF, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-18
Updated: 2014-01-18
Packaged: 2018-01-09 02:50:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1140552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janice_Lester/pseuds/Janice_Lester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Misha's Beatles tribute band faces a challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mishles

**Author's Note:**

> Started long, long ago for [](http://trope-bingo.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**trope_bingo**](http://trope-bingo.dreamwidth.org/), for the square "au: band", and only recently completed. Contains silliness and mild dickery. Beta'd by the noble and most patient [](http://nix-this.livejournal.com/profile)[nix_this](http://nix-this.livejournal.com/).

Misha Collins is a terrible Paul McCartney. His wife tells him so one evening, after callously shooting down—for the third time—his plan to enlist her in a weekend Wings tribute band. He would adore her even if she was secretly and all-consuming-ly in love with Jefferson Airplane, but really, _must_ she?

“Misha, darling, it’s not just that I can’t sing or play an instrument more elaborate than the triangle. It’s not just that I have no desire to perform for an audience or that I don’t resemble Linda in the slightest. There’s the small point that I can, just off the top of my head, think of about a hundred bands more worthy of tribute than Wings. And then there’s the fact that you are really not _meant_ to play Paul McCartney.”

Misha ponders this, hands tucked beneath his chin, back just starting to ache on account that he is probably not the sort of person who should take up yoga with an iPhone app as an instructor, nor practice it during unpleasant conversations. “I suppose I could swap with Jensen,” he allows eventually. “I’m a bit rusty to take on lead guitar, but I suppose if I worked at it—”

Vicki shakes her head. “Jensen makes an excellent George. You were very lucky to find him.”

Misha considers. “I’m not _that_ bad a drummer. Well, I’m not worse than Zach, anyway. I can actually play a drumroll.” He feels guilty for saying that, but kinda doubts she’ll get the reference. Vicki likes the Beatles, but lacks obsession. It’s okay, he loves her anyway.

Vicki shakes her head some more. Her hair looks so pretty, the way it bounces. Maybe they should do a late-career retrospective so he can have an excuse to grow out his bowl cut for a while? “Zach’s wasted on drums with only two songs. He’s really a fabulous singer. But you’re no Ringo. Face it, Mish. Personality-wise, you’re a John. Deal with it.”

Misha opens his mouth to reply, but then his whole world seems to shift on its axis--his downward facing dog spontaneously shifts to a first stage cobra--and he can’t seem to find the breath.

“Also,” Vicki adds, as if it’s merely an afterthought, “Kane wants to leave The Mishles and form some kind of country band. He’s got a whole spiral-bound notebook full of songs he’s written. So you’ll need a new John anyway.”

This news is very upsetting (the Kane part, and also the part where his Linda could become his Yoko). He’s probably going to need some help to get over it. “Have we got any of those candy canes left?”

Vicki smiles indulgently and pats him. “Basket on top of the fridge.”

***

Misha makes the band practice “Twist and Shout” twelve times before he feels Christian Kane has suffered enough to discuss the topic of his alleged leaving. His rhythm guitarist is thus pleasantly hoarse when Misha demands to know if the rumours are true.

“Well, yeah,” Kane croaks. “It’s always been a dream of mine. You knew that, right?”

Misha pouts. “But you’re an integral part of The Mishles!”

Kane smiles sadly. “You don’t need me, Mish, you never did. Besides, the Beatles did okay without Pete Best, right?”

Well, there _is_ that. “You’re at least going to stay on until we can find a replacement, right? The Mishles _cannot_ be a three-piece.”

“‘Course,” Kane says easily.

Slightly mollified, Misha hugs him. A little hard, apparently. There are complaints.

“Your bass is kinda trying to disembowel me here, man.”

Misha leans back a little, swings the instrument on its strap around to his back, and continues the hugging. He really, really does not want to lose his John. But he also really, really wants his John to be happy. It’s confusing. “I’ll miss you,” he whispers.

“We’ll keep in touch. And I may actually get to see a Mishles performance from the audience!”

This heart-felt wish mollifies Misha further, and he’s finally able to relax for the first time since hearing the dreadful news. “So, any thoughts about possible replacements?”

***

Misha recognises Jared hovering at the back of the room during the auditions. The kid is often to be found near the stage door after concerts in this part of the country; Misha gathers he’s prepared to travel some distance to see The Mishles. Well, to see _Jensen_. That’s who the kid always asks for, though on the few occasions Misha’s actually brought them together the enormous boy has immediately gone all blushy and silent.

Since the discussion between Kane and the latest wannabe—who is fifty if he’s a day but who actually looks quite a lot like Paul (which would work in his favour if he wasn't auditioning for _John_ )—doesn’t really seem to require his input, Misha heads up to the back to speak to the kid.

“Here to try out?” he asks gently. The kid turns big eyes on him. “It’s Jared, right?” He offers his hand.

“Yeah.” He shakes it. Big hand. Good grip. “And you’re Misha. And, uh, no. I’m a drummer, and the notice said you need a guitarist.”

Misha frowns, imagines the little Vicki-angel on his shoulder hissing in his ear. “A drummer, huh? Are you a _good_ drummer?”

“Pretty decent,” Jared says, and then becomes very interested in his toes.

Misha looks down at the stage. Zach is slouched at his drums, tapping boredly away at his iPhone, probably destroying some hapless soul at Words With Friends; Kane is trying to get Latest Auditionee to bounce from the knees and hold his guitar like a Beatle; Jensen has apparently still not escaped the sadistic clutches of his dentist; and Mike, who is covering, is rubbing his bald head with one hand and flipping through the well-thumbed pages of _Beatles Guitar_ with the other. Mike’s a good egg, but too busy (and too hairless) on account of his TV show to join the band for real. Besides, as Vicki says, Jensen is a _great_ George.

Ten minutes later, after Misha has invited Jared to share his packed lunch of avocado, tuna, cheese and ketchup sandwiches, fresh garlic, Hershey’s Kisses, and grape juice (the Collins household is still experimenting with the let-West-be-in-charge-of-the-grocery-shopping educational project), and the last two auditonees have been chased out by an exasperated Kane, Misha seizes the opportunity to drag Jared up on stage.

“Okay, people,” he says, “just for shits and giggles, let’s switch things up, okay?” He bends to pick up his instrument. “Zach, have a bass. Jared, on the drums. I’ll be rhythm guitar, Mike, you take lead. Jared, I presume you know all the songs?”

Jared nods eagerly. “Pretty much, yeah. Except for some of the stuff off _Let it Be_ , but you don’t normally play the late stuff, right?”

Misha beams. He has a good feeling about this. It makes him feel all warm and clever. “Okay, then. What should we play? Jared, favourite song?”

“Uh… ‘Things We Said Today’?”

Interesting choice. But Zach’s looking distinctly panicked, and Misha takes pity. “I’d love to try that later. But how about something a bit more A-side, for starters?” _Preferably with a Lennon lead vocal_ , he doesn’t add. _Let’s not ask too much of Zach just now, huh?_

“‘I Want To Hold Your Hand’,” Jared says, and his gaze darts, apparently unconsciously, to stage left where Jensen would normally be standing.

_Oh, boy._

“Suits me,” Mike says, having turned to the relevant page. “You guys wanna crowd around the cheat sheet?”

There are false starts, and once or twice Misha forgets that he’s supposed to be singing lead instead of harmony, and Mike’s playing isn’t as nuanced as Jensen’s, and Jared doesn’t have that way of looking at and working with them that Zach’s developed, but it actually all gels rather well, in Misha’s humble opinion. And as far as appearance goes, that nose isn’t working against verisimilitude where Jared-as-Ringo is concerned.

And oh, yeah, they don’t suck. They actually DO NOT SUCK. Kane’s slow applause actually approaches non-ironic-ness.

***

“You were right,” he tells Vicki, stroking her hip.

“I know,” she says, smothering a yawn. “About what?”

“Band rearrangement. I totally found the rockin’ new Ringo I wasn’t even looking for.”

“I’m glad,” she says. “So you’ll be John now?”

“Yup.”

“I think that’ll work splendidly.”

“That’s because you’re a genius.”

She yawns again. “I know. Now shut up and get on with my massage, would you?”

***

The problem, as it soon transpires, is that the sight of their George makes their new Ringo drop his drumsticks. Or the beat. Or his ability to remember his own name. Still, it gives Misha something to focus on besides how difficult it actually is to switch instruments and roles in the band overnight. And how disgustingly easily Zach has managed it.

Zach’s voice ought to be completely wrong for Paul, _completely_. But somehow it just… works. There’s a smoothness and ease there that is very Paul, and Zach totally has the knack of holding his hand-me-down bass just so. He even claims he may be able to learn to play left-handed, which is not something they’ve really worried about before. (It always looks odd to Misha when Mike fills in as a left-handed George, but since Misha has always _been_ the Paul he’s never exactly had to adjust to the sight of an unauthentically right-handed one from a spectator’s point of view.)

Jensen is a little weird about Jared, possibly on account of all the staring. Misha may have to speak to one or both of them about it. Or invest in some horse blinders. Or rearrange their stage positions somehow?

So, new line-up: promising, but with teething troubles.

***

Chris Pine is their costume guy.

He is not pleased to see Jared.

“Seriously, he’s, what, eight feet tall?” He flicks his floppy tapeline like a whip. “And those shoulders, what am I meant to do with those shoulders? As if Zach wasn’t bad enough! How am I meant to put him in a suit next to you three and not have him stand out like a sore thumb?”

“Not sure,” says Misha, vaguely distracted because this isn’t really his problem and the issue of whether or not to accept the slightly seedy gig in Fresno _is_ , “but I’m sure you’ll manage.”

Chris snaps his gum obnoxiously. “Fine. Whatever. Guess I can always attempt to blind the audience with sparkles so they don’t notice. Be nice to Zoe on your way out. She’ll hate me for sending her out to source _more_ of that damn pink _Pepper_ satin. And I _bet_ the stupid hat won't fit his giant head.”

Jared looks more amused than hurt at this, and he keeps looking towards Zach—who is testing Chris’s latest collection of silk neckties for tensile strength—as if mentally comparing the size of their heads. He’s switched over to looking embarrassed by the time Chris starts taking his measurements, but Misha barely notices, he’s had a sudden distracting vision of them all artfully descending a staircase in matching white suits, clicking their fingers and singing ‘Your Mother Should Know’…

He remembers himself at the raucous click-clack of the credit card machine acknowledging the purchase of Zach’s chosen ties. Misha extracts his wallet from his back pocket with a pained sigh and follows him to the counter.

“Has anyone ever told you,” Zoe enquires, while carefully filling out a receipt for his latest costume deposit, “how grateful we are that you didn’t decide to do a David Bowie tribute act instead?”

Misha takes this unexpected double-compliment with a polite bow. “I chose my idols with only your costuming difficulties in mind, dear lady.”

Zoe rolls her eyes. “And I just bet Kane’s old boots won’t fit him either… Finding those things is a real mission. You people certainly make my life interesting.”

As they leave, Chris can be heard grumbling to himself about three sets of alterations and round collars and topstitching, and something about an evil presser foot. Misha knows he loves it really.

***

They look pretty fine for their first gig with the new line-up, even if Misha does say so himself. Jared’s drum kit is a little different, a little shinier than Zach’s, so it’s a bit strange to glance back in that direction and see the familiar old THE MISHLES skin there, but Jared himself looks right at home there and his hair has at last been tamed. Zach studied for, like, a week or something, inhaled twenty gallons of coffee and three reams of sheet music, and now plays the bass as if it was always his first love. Misha’s still kinda struggling with the transition to rhythm guitar (and he’ll be putting off learning the harmonica as long as possible, sorry, folks), but, hey, if they’re bad it’s not like anyone can claim that the actual Beatles were actually any good live. In their heyday, anyway, they could barely hear themselves play over all the excited fannish screaming.

Chris definitely had a point about the suits, but since the uber-tall Jared with his extra-wide shoulders sits down on stage, it isn’t _that_ bad. Besides, The Mishles aren’t known for being great lookalikes, right? Or, uh, great soundalikes, really. They’re known for sounding good in their own way and turning the whole Beatles vibe right up to eleven. Twelve on a good day (suck it, Spinal Tap!).

“Was John Lennon really this much of an ass?” Jared complains, when Misha has apparently made the soundcheck drag on too long.

“Absolutely,” Jensen puts in sweetly, before Misha can answer. “Yoko Ono does not get nearly enough credit for the superb de-assing job she did on him.” And he raises his eyebrows at Misha. “Equipment’s all working. We done here?”

“Okay,” Misha allows, “see you all back here promptly at eight. Sober and straight.” He looks at Zach, then at Jensen. “Well, you know what I mean.”

Jensen flips him the bird (his manicure really is exquisite), then lays down his guitar and wanders off.

“Was I rude?” Misha hears Jared quietly asking Zach. “I can be rude. And stupid. It’s a thing.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Zach says. “Misha brings out colourful and intriguing aspects of us all.”

Like a really good teacher, Misha thinks smugly. Or a drill sergeant.

***

Their second gig doesn’t go quite so well, with the whole Flying Drumstick Incident. Fortunately an audience member manages to catch the missile before it can impact anywhere unfortunate, and instead of being the target of an expensive personal injury lawsuit Jared merely has to allow Bill from Ohio to keep the drumstick as a souvenir. It’s surprisingly difficult to autograph a drumstick neatly, by the way. Third gig? Jared misses the start of the steps and almost winds up in the orchestra pit on his head. Still, you expect a learning curve with a new line-up, right? As long as it IS only a learning curve, and not a long and winding road of them, Misha can deal.

***

It takes two weeks and Misha’s brilliant intervention to get Jared to stop being so shy and clumsy around Jensen. He does this through the medium of alcohol provision. That, and cleverly starting a discussion about which college football team is the best in Texas, then shrinking back into the shadows when it starts to get heated. It gets them talking, good-natured righteous fury quickly replacing awkwardness. Then the conversation gets very quiet, and then…

Misha whistles softly to himself as he leaves them to their now-mutual moony-eyed stupor. His work here is done. Dropped drumsticks will soon be a thing of the past. And if he wonders vaguely whether there’s much Ringo/George fanfiction out there, and whether sharing some choice erotic morsels of such vaunted prose would engender matching blushes, well, curiosity is only dangerous to those of the feline persuasion, right?

“It’s not your business,” Vicki tells him, over her newspaper one morning. “Leave them to it. You’d make a terrible Cupid.”

Sometimes he thinks she says these things as part of a devious reverse psychology strategy. Surely there’s no way she could actually believe she might talk him out of one of his brilliant schemes? He’s about to say so—even though that would be tipping his hand and might possibly cost him in the future—when he’s distracted by magnificent mental imagery. “I’d make an adorable Cupid,” he insists. “With the little wings and everything.” He sketches out the little wings with his hands. They are fluffy and feathery and totally stroke-worthy. Everyone would want to pet him. He’d be like that guy with the chest in _Xena: Warrior Princess_. Might be even _better_ than being a Beatle!

“Darling, I love you, and this conversation is _fascinating_ , but don’t you have a pesky little day job to get to?”

Misha grouches but concedes. Stupid day job. Stupid cost of living. Stupid—

Right then, a colourful bird alights on the shrub outside the window, and Misha, interpreting this as a sign from some monstrous and beneficent universal power, calms himself and enjoys the view.

***

“I knew it!” Misha cries, holding his smartphone aloft in triumph.

The others look up—Jensen and Zach from their instrument tuning, Jared from his half-eaten bag of potato chips—and Misha deigns to explain. “There IS George/Ringo slash! Oodles of it!” He frowns. “I wonder how big we have to get before there is Mishles fanfiction?”

“I don’t know about you,” Zach deadpans, “but _I_ write that shit all the time. I used to focus my literary talents chiefly on the topic of the lovely Christian bending you over various items of furniture--check out christiankanesmisha.net--but as he’s moved on to pastures new I may have to turn my creative attentions to one of the others.” He looks from Jensen to Jared. “Or both,” he adds nonchalantly.

Misha opens his mouth to protest, but before he can quite work out how to do that without offending anybody, especially his wife, Jensen steps in.

“What’d you say, Jay? Would you care to share the delightful Misha with me? I’ll keep his mouth good and busy so you can concentrate without all the yapping.” Misha manages a small squawk at this point. Jensen turns his head, continues unabashed. “What? Don’t act like you don’t get off on the idea. I know you, Mish.”

Misha makes the executive decision that it is definitely time they got this rehearsal on the road. “Jensen, shut up and sing. ‘If I Needed Someone’. And go.”

Jensen rolls his eyes but adjusts his grip on the guitar and picks out the intro. Steps up to the mic. “ _If I needed someone to love/You’re the one that I’d be thinking of/If I needed someone…”_

***

“Zach’s bringing his boyfriend, if that’s okay,” Vicki offers absently, fiddling with her earrings at the dresser.

“Of course that’s okay.” He thinks. “Wait, which one is it? The one who—” he shudders delicately “—thinks he’s Mick Jagger? Or the one who thinks he’s Jonathan Groff?”

“The one who _is_ Jonathan Groff,” Vicki corrects.

“Oh. Right. Awesome. I like him. He doesn’t make stupid claims about ‘I Wanna Be Your Man’.”

“Because that’s what really matters. Right.”

Misha thinks back to the last time they had one of these little soirées and Guy Who Is Apparently The _Real_ Jonathan Groff came along. “Isn’t he also the one who makes Zach ridiculously happy?”

“Yup.”

“I knew I liked him.”

Vicki pats his head for being so wonderful. Misha beams.

***

Jared is a very, VERY friendly drunk. He’s kind of like a giant puppy with overlarge feet, flailing all over the place and licking people and generally being adorable.

Well, okay, so Misha exaggerates slightly. He’s only seen him licking _Jensen_ , and that was in the bathroom where he probably thought no one would see, only Misha is kind of used to being allowed to visit his own bathroom when he wants and since no one had locked the door, how was he to know what he would see when he ventured in and—

“Little busy here, Mish,” comes Jensen’s voice, somewhat muffled by Jared’s face.

Misha salutes, retreats, and hums happily to himself as he looks for alternative pee-disposal venues. Clearly, he totally _is_ Cupid. He’s also starting to feel a little bit circa-1970 John, because he’s incredibly fucking proud that his bandmates are making love, not war.

Although, it does present a problem. If two of his bandmates got married, wouldn’t that mean they’d have to hire a band for the wedding? A necessarily _non-Mishles_ band? He’s not sure he could deal with that level of disloyalty. But he’s also not sure he can legally require his lead guitarist and his drummer to clone themselves so that they can _play_ the first dance while they are also dancing it. Could be a problem.

As he’s peeing in the thicket behind his garden shed, and recalling vaguely that something in pee is very good for plants and gardeners are especially supposed to pee on their lemon trees, Misha discovers in the depths of his genius brain the most singularly impressive possible solution to this problem. First, he will win the lottery. Then he will have Mike (with a very convincing wig) stand in for Jensen, and he will hire Ringo Starr to stand in for Jared! Brilliant!

As he is zipping his fly, it occurs to Misha that it’s possible he has had too much to drink. He burps happily and resolves to leave worrying about the wedding issue for another day. After all, it’s always possible that his compatriots will elope to Gibraltar or something. He doesn’t think it’s actually a rule that you have to declare the next year Year One if you do that.

***

Going on the road is more expensive once Jared and Jensen get together. In the old days, they’d all share a room, you see. But now, with those two likely to be getting it on of an evening, Misha kind of said that they should maybe have their own room. But then Zach was like, _dude, what’s wrong with two people who love each other? I’m sure they won’t keep us awake with erotic screaming or anything_. And Misha was like, _I’m sure they’d like their privacy, wouldn’t you, guys?_ And Jared and Jensen looked at each other as if telepathically composing a shared response, but before they could utter it Zach accused his fearless leader of homophobia. And then they had to get _three_ rooms, because Zach refused to share with just Misha.

Sucks.

Big time.

Then again, it also means no arguments about what goes on the stereo, and none of that awful feeling Misha gets in his chest whenever Zach reveals that his latest infatuation is R.E.M or Black Lab or Taylor Swift or some band so new and indie and underground that no one’s entirely sure it actually exists.

With a room to himself, Misha can put on “Off the Ground” and not have to feel embarrassed. Well, okay, he still feels embarrassed, but no one else chimes in to encourage that feeling. It’s just him and Paul, and Paul would never tell.

He loves his bandmates, really. If he entertains the occasional fantasy about setting up on his own as a David Bowie tribute act, what of it? He blames Zoe for putting the idea in his head. And he could totally rock the whole Ziggy Stardust look. He’d be a total blam-blam.

“Hey,” Jared tells him as they’re about to head on stage, “we know you’re not a homophobe, okay? You’re just… Misha.”

Misha doesn’t find that particularly informative, but he appreciates the sentiment there in Jared’s kind eyes. He smiles, chest swelling with sudden contentment. Nods. “So, where are we going, boys?”

Jensen rolls his eyes, but then they all chime in obediently, “To the toppermost of the poppermost, Johnny!”

Satisfied, Misha gestures with his guitar towards the green room door and the brightly-lit stage beyond. _Baby, you’re a rich man,_ he thinks. And on they go.

***END***


End file.
